


NOVECENTO (the real folk blues)

by slexenskee (Sambomaster)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Merope is a super spy, unrepentant star trek references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sambomaster/pseuds/slexenskee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merope Gaunt left earth with no intention of ever returning. She prefers to pretend that entire mission never existed, and neither did the planet. Unfortunately, Lord Vader has other ideas, and it’s not as if she can exactly say no when her boss and the galaxy's resident Sith Lord tells her to do something. It's been five years for her - and almost a century on earth; she'd thought she was in the clear.</p><p>She was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NOVECENTO (the real folk blues)

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is my love child, it's crazy. I knew I wanted to write a story about Merope, being a badass somehow, but not much else. Originally she was going to be a ninja - but I love space, and cowboy bebop, and yeah. 
> 
> In honor of the new Star Wars coming out this year, I present:

n o v e c e n t o

 

star wars / harry potter crossover:

 

Merope Gaunt left earth with no intention of ever returning. She prefers to pretend that entire mission never existed, and neither did the planet. Unfortunately, Darth Vader has other ideas, and it’s not as if she can exactly say no when her boss tells her to do something.

 

.

 

.

 

T H  E     R E  A  L       F  O  L K       B  L U  E  S

 

.

 

 

.

 

Ice and dust wander mazily over a fine sheet of smoke, catching light in unrefined gold, scintillating lights lit like the sultan of the sky. Vergesso VII hovers as an indomitable, starless dome just beneath the hull of the ship, and behind it the rest of the galaxy exists as a gossamer veil of light and energy. It is, for all intent purposes, a beautiful sight. Vergesso itself is the color of quiet mist; there is perhaps something sorrowful to it, as if the brighter colors were stripped from it long ago. Two unremarkable shepherd moons drift around it in a collection of striped dust, casting a trail in the long rings that leaves an endless streak through the ice and cinders; they will orbit again, and even more of the dust and ice will be washed away in its wake.

 

She derives great repose from the sight, a settled equanimity resting against her shoulders as her eyes maunder through the stars, picking out the ones she knows, the ones she’s been to, the ones she wants to see.

 

The ones she _doesn’t_ want to see.

 

The Vergesso system perhaps the last vestige of chartered space—maybe even farther out than Tatooine. It doesn’t really matter; the both of them are so backwater there’s no real competition between them. It is a rare sight indeed to see a place so unmarked by the Empire; the scoundrels of Vergesso want for nothing but credits and weapons, and they will shoot an Imp at five parsecs without thought. Much like Tatooine, the planet attracts all those who want to hide, or simply those who just have nowhere else to go.

 

But even still there are places even farther than Vergesso. Systems so far removed from the galaxy that they are completely alone in their solar dynasty, with no knowledge of the vast, bureaucratic capitalist galaxy that spins just beyond the blinding sun.

 

This is one of them.

 

“Merope,”

 

She turns at her name, casting a dismissive glance behind her; Wrenga Jixton saunters his way towards the windows. Predictably, there is an imported exotic beer in one hand, and a blaster in the other.

 

“Jix,” she returns, without inflection.

 

It’s not as if she dislikes Jix’s company; quite the contrary. She is rather fond of him. He must be the only person this side of Coruscant who can give Vader cheek and not be strangled for it. Jix gets away with a lot of mouthing off, with a lot of people—this only serves to show just how likable he can make himself to be. It’s easy to like Jix; for being a servant of Darth Vader, he’s a really amiable, open guy, who is utterly incapable of lying. Far too good for the empire, that’s for sure.

 

No, it’s not Jix that has her in such a sullen mood.

 

It’s their destination.

 

“You look like he’s sending you to death row,” the brunette notes, propping himself on the back of a couch across from her. “It can’t be that bad.”

 

She makes a noncommittal noise.

 

“It can’t be any worse than Xagobah,” he amends.

 

She spares him a long, flat look.

 

He guffaws loudly at that. “It’s that bad?”

 

“It’s that bad.” She agrees, solemn. And it is. But perhaps not in geography or weather—fortunately Earth does not rain arsenic or erupt ionized sulfuric acid. Personally though she’d take the poisonous rain and equally poisonous ground over this particular planet.

 

“You haven’t even been there.” He points out.

 

This would be a logical statement, yes.

 

Had it actually been the truth.

 

“I’ve read a datapad or two,” she lies smoothly. She is not a spy for nothing. “They don’t exactly make it out to be Naboo or anything.”

 

“I thought they had the same atmospheric temperature?”

 

Merope sighs. “You’re missing my point.”

 

“Oh.” Jix blinks. “Am I?”

 

“It’s certainly no vacation,” she extrapolates warily, leaning against the glass and folding her arms.

 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” the imperial agent waves her concerns off. “You’re practically indestructible; not to mention you and Vader have that weird black magic stuff to protect you.”

 

“Force,” she amends with a sigh, but it is a lost cause. Jix is incapable of remembering the name of this ‘weird black magic’—and he is not alone in this. Darth Vader had spoken once of a time when Jedi and Sith were plentiful and still at odds; no one doubted the existence of the Force back then.

 

Now, it’s considered a strange myth from deep space at best, or a crazy cult religion at worst.

 

He has a point though. But she’s not concerned over her own safety.

 

“When’s the briefing?” She decides a tactful change of subject is in order.

 

“Five minutes.” He answers.

 

Merope raises a brow. “Shouldn’t you get going, then?”

 

Jix makes a vague noise, casually looking in the other direction. This means yes, he should be, but no, he’s not going to. Missing the mission briefings, as usual. Some things just don’t change.

 

He waves her off, and she leaves without much fanfare.

 

She decides it’s a lost cause to attempt to wrangle him into the meeting; getting Jix to do anything he doesn’t want is a lesson in futility. The walk to the briefing room is dark and quiet—relatively normal for the star destroyer _Exactor,_ Vader’s personal ship. She does not make a sound, far too trained to have a misplaced step, even lost in thought. It has been a long time since she’s thought on this horrid planet, and it’s just as disconcerting now as it was then. Distracted she may be, but this does not detract at all from her senses, and she looks up to see an elegant female body emerge from the shadows.

 

“Lumiya,” she says, not pleasantly or dissentingly—neutral, perhaps. Respectful. They are not friends, but yet this woman might know her longer than anyone else. Aside from the Emperor, perhaps.

 

“Merope,” returns the woman, prowling out of the shadows, shaking out her fiery mane of hair. Merope is surprised to see it out of its normal wrappings. “Off to the briefing?”

 

“Yes,” she intones, unreadable. It is so easy to slip back into her persona when Lumiya is around; another cunning, deadly, and infamous assassin, and one of the _Emperor’s Hands_. It reminds her that, though she may not be in the intimate service of the Emperor any longer, she will never stop being an agent of darkness.

 

Lumiya hums. She tosses the other woman a long look. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

 

This stirs her out of her thoughts. She looks up quickly. “My what?”

 

“Mission,” Lumiya clarifies. “You’re running point on this, aren’t you?” There is perhaps a small frisson of jealousy, though it is nothing to be concerned about. Lumiya is always jealous when she is not the center of attention; she’ll forget about it soon enough, however.

 

And anyway, it is completely unwarranted.

 

“Oh—yes, I am.” She agrees, with no small amount of dejection.

 

Lumiya’s look is curious. “You don’t want it?”

 

“If I could give it to you, I would.” Merope replies flatly.

 

Lumiya blinks. “You _really_ don’t want it.”

 

And she really would give it, if she could. But she doubts Vader would be all that pleased to hear she’s been ducking out of missions for what constitutes as an inexplicable reason. Even if she does hand it over to Lumiya, and actually gets away with it, the Sith Lord would no doubt interrogate her on her reasons behind it—and this was an event she wished to avoid above all else.

 

 _Her past coming to haunt her_ , she thinks darkly. Maybe it was inevitable.

 

But she had severed everything so perfectly. Her execution was flawless; even if perhaps a curious eye were to peak into the brief life of Merope Gaunt, they would find nothing but a tragic and hideous tramp, who died in poverty in an dank and ill-kept orphanage. They would not make a connection to Merope Pleione, who is neither tragic nor hideous.

 

They reach the briefing center far too soon. The doors slide open with a quiet hiss, and the open, boyish face of Admiral Piett looks up briefly from his specs.

 

“Ladies, hello.” He greets, tapping around on his screens. He gestures to the conference chairs. Lumiya sits on the table; Merope opts to lean against the back wall. He is not at all surprised that the do not take up any of the offered chairs.

 

She is somewhat surprised to see the operatives Vader has chosen for this task. Lieutenant Montgomery Scott is present, of course, most likely running point on logistics and operations. The other occupant in the room is a man dressed in very familiar armor.

 

Merope’s brows raise. A bounty hunter? What would Vader want Fett for? She’s surprised the man even took the job; he prefers to operate alone.

 

There are more people who file in soon after her, peripheral characters; the storm troopers and tie fighter pilots on standby, a couple paper pushers probably there for legalities, shipmates simply sitting in for curiosity. Who knows. This isn’t a clandestine operation, so the attendance is not strictly enforced. The mission process for Lord Vader in contrast to the Emperor is too different to compare. The Emperor disregards any and all policies and legal issues; he is never held back by paperwork. He commands, and his servants deliver. Lord Vader commands, and his servants deliver, but there are meetings like this and paperwork filed and people briefed in the in-between.

 

It is a long, endless meeting. Even the boredom does not stem her nerves, as she restlessly shifts her weight on the wall.

 

The mission itself is painfully easy. Painfully easily, and excruciatingly tedious. It is completely centered around her specialties; reconnaissance, tracking, and assassination. She might not get the kill though, that appears to be why Fett is here. But she does have to hunt down the rebel informant hiding on this unsuspecting, outer rim planet. Not only a rebel informant—but a spy, and a damned good one at that. The empire doesn’t even have a name, or much proof of existence.

 

But that is enough, for her. The Force can do the rest.

 

Still, the idea of an enemy spy—someone equally as trained and deadly as her—makes something horrible twist in her stomach, as she remembers another lethally talented spy, on opposite ends of the war from her.

 

“How do we even know he’s on this planet?” She murmurs, as the system map spins slowly around the room, casting drifting, soft blue lights upon the room. She reaches a hand out to trace against a spinning hologram of Jupiter as it passes by her.

 

“We don’t.” Replies Admiral Piett. “We have the word of a few… questionable operatives—

 

So wastrels and vagrants willing to sell out second-hand information for a handful of credits.

 

—but nothing concrete.” He coughs delicately. “However, there is, indeed, a mole in the Empire—there is far too much empirical evidence proving this to be true.”

 

There is a heavy silence.

 

“And a very well informed one, at that.” The Admiral adds, gravely. “Whoever this traitor is—he has intimate access to the Empire, and the Emperor’s plans.”

 

Merope looks up sharply at this. She notices Lumiya does the same. “Are you insinuating that he’s a _Hand_?”

 

“Or something of the sort.” Admiral Piett nods.

 

Merope blinks rapidly at that. This is definitely a more serious situation than she’d thought. She’s no lost love with the Empire, but the idea of a traitor and spy being so close to the Emperor without him even knowing is… well, it’s impossible. The Emperor always finds them, but more importantly, he has the foresight not to hire them in the first place. That someone could get so close—perhaps even closer than she had ever been—and hoodwink the leader of the Empire is particularly concerning.

 

A very good spy indeed.

 

“But he might not be here.” She adds.

 

He nods again.

 

“Is this just to be a wild goose chase, then?” She accuses, irritated. It sounds like an astounding waste of time.

 

“Yes,” the Admiral affirms, something of a smile on his lips. “That would be why you are to lead the mission, Merope.” Well, she surmises, that would make sense. She may possibly be the only person in the galaxy who could ever have a chance of finding him.

 

This does not make her feel any better about it.

 

“Boba Fett will assist you, if necessary. He will be following up some of his own leads.”

 

The bounty hunter makes no indication that he even acknowledges any of them. Typical.

 

The meeting wraps up quickly after that, and the occupants of the room shuttle out with little fanfare. Merope lingers, drawing closer to the conference table and inspecting the strewn data plans and maps.

 

“If anything happens to you down there, just say the word and I’ll get you.” Scotty reminds her, smiling rakishly.

 

She spares him a small, belittled smile. “You always do.”

 

She turns to the bounty hunter waiting in the shadows. “Are you coming down with me? Or are we running separate?”

 

“Separate,” answers Boba Fett. “You comb through the planet; I’ll be checking other systems and seeing if there might be a lead. If not…”

 

Merope shares his lack of enthusiasm. If not, she’s out to find a needle in a haystack. It will be near impossible to find him on Earth; if he’s as good as she imagines him to be, he’ll have a cover that’s just as flawless as the life of Merope Gaunt. 

 

“Yeah,” she agrees distantly, heaving a sigh. “We’ll be shit out of luck.”

 

“Well you are considered one of the best trackers in the galaxy,” Scotty takes the moment to point out, sounding far too cheery. “If you can’t find him, I don’t think anyone could.”

 

He attempts for reassuring—and misses by a mile.

 

“How’s your flying?” Fett poses to her. “Passable, I assume.”

 

She bristles a bit at that. Passable? Vader himself taught her how to fly. She is far more than ‘passable’—she’s probably even better than him. But there’s no point in getting worked up over it.

 

“Yes,” she replies, coolly. “I know a trick or two for combat.”

 

“Then you can take care of your own transport.” Boba Fett announces, spinning smartly on his heel and making for the doors. Merope watches him leave incredulously; does he think he looks cool doing that?

 

“I expect an update in three weeks time,” he tosses over his shoulder just as he hesitates by the doorway. And then, after a pause, “Or rather, Lord Vader does.”

 

“Don’t disappoint him.” And then he is off into the gloom of the hallways.

 

Merope doesn’t even bother getting annoyed with him; it would be a waste of time. Anyway, it takes a lot more than that to get under her skin.

 

“When’s Mission Launch?” Scott looks up from his data pads, curiously.

 

Merope grunts. “Now, I guess.”

 

Scotty looks up in alarm. “But I haven’t had time to brief you on the system!”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He probably won’t have anything to say that she doesn’t already know.

 

She turns to leave, but Scotty drags her back. “It’s okay,” he continues, totally ignoring her prior statement. “I can probably give you a quick summary.”

 

Merope sighs, but resigns herself to it anyway.

 

“It’s surface temperature has a median of 75; mostly populated with humans—no other intelligent lifeforms on world. Mostly water and rock, made up of nitrogen, oxygen, helium, carbon, carbon dioxide…”

 

She tunes him out, rubbing her temples. She doesn’t want to hear anything about Earth right now—or ever.

 

“It’s time lapse is fifteen times faster than the Coruscant standard—“

 

She blinks, straightening up at that. “Wait.” She interrupts him. “What do you mean, fifteen?”

 

Scotty pauses, peering up at her owlishly. “It means that ten years here would be one-hundred fifty years there, give or take a few years. Their rotation is lop-sided. Now, technology wise they appear to be—

 

But Merope is no longer paying attention. Something far too close to relief sifts into her stomach as she closes her eyes. A time lapse. Perfect. She should have thought of that—it’s so far from the center of the galaxy, and it’s not like it’s been chronorized for Coruscant time like the rest of the galaxy.

 

And twice as long… that means that the five or so years she’s spent back in the galaxy since her first tenure on Earth result in… what would that be, three quarters of a century?

 

She closes her eyes.

 

That’s a very long time. Whatever… loose ends she may have left would be long gone by now. Or at the very least, rendered irrelevant.

 

“—Are you listening to me?” Scotty demands hotly.

 

She shakes her head. “Yes, of course.” She lies. “Most of the surface is water then, I suspect?”

 

“Yes, predominantly composed of—

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

The antechamber is a noticeable drop in temperature from the rest of the ship; lit with nothing but the array of lights blinking from all the machines lined up on the walls. In the center is a holopad, and she walks onto it with the barest of hesitations.

 

The screen in front of her lights up. She gives a curt bow in response to the figure presented.

 

“Lord Vader,” she greets, mildly.

 

“Agent Pleione,” he returns, after a breath. His respirator is such a familiar sound it is almost comforting. “I trust the Admiral has briefed you accordingly?”

 

“Yes, though he was not all that keen to explain Fett’s positioning in this operation.”

 

“Nor should he have,” Vader returns. “Do not concern yourself with Fett’s doings—they will not coincide very often with your own. If they do, he will be certain to alert you beforehand.”

 

She makes a face at that. “As long as he doesn’t jeoporadize my cover.” Because it would be just like the fame-and-glory bounty hunter to make some kind of dramatic entry and completely blow her whole operation. The whole point of being clandestine is never attracting undue attention to oneself—or at least, not attention that you intentionally wanted to have. Boba Fett is the opposite of that; he enjoys epic explosions, and his armor is iconic and recognizable from parsecs away.

 

“I will see to it that it does not.” Replies the Sith Lord.

 

Merope accepts the answer as it is; it’s not her concern whether Fett risks his own life or not by pissing off an already moody and reclusive Sith Lord. “Was there anything you needed from me, my Lord?”

 

Vader pauses. For an endless moment, the only sound comes from his respirator in long, mechanical beats. Finally, after great length, he answers her. “Yes.”

 

She tilts her head curiously.

 

“It is not unlikely that there will perhaps be other—operatives, with the same mission.”

 

“Rebel operatives?” She clarifies.

 

Another pause. “No.”

 

He is being far more enigmatic and tight-lipped than usual. Merope narrows her eyes; the force shimmers with unease, licks against her spine and sends shivers of trepidation all the way to the small hairs at the nape of her neck. Something is amiss.

 

When it becomes clear he won’t elaborate, she clears her throat. “What would you like me to do with them, my Lord?”

 

“Do not engage.” He commands sternly. “Do not give them any reason to suspect that you are acting on orders, or are anyone other than whatever insignificant person you decide to become.”

 

She nods, still somewhat alarmed, but unwilling to voice her concerns. Her eyes lower. “…And, if they do suspect me?”

 

“Terminate them.”

 

She chances a glance at the holoscreen in front of her, searching the unreadable gaze of his mask. Outwardly, there is no way to tell what sort of expression he bears, or what emotions may be residing within, simply from the helmet. But it is far more difficult to mask his emotions from the force. Right now, she feels he is wary, and on edge.

 

She dips her head slightly. “As you wish.” She says, with finality.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Leaving so soon?” Jix pouts, leaning over the side of her z-95 fighter.

 

She rolls out from beneath the hull, peering up at him. “I don’t exactly have a choice in it.” She points out, before she rolls back under the belly of the ship.

 

It is heavily modified, and painted in a sheer silver and black. It actually had once belonged to Lord Vader, but his starship collection had gotten out of hand and he’d been forced to part with quite a few; he said he preferred to have this one at least be put to good use, rather than shoved into a junkyard somewhere. She holds this thing in higher regard than she does most people. She loves this thing, practically like its her first born—

 

She cuts herself off, unable to finish the thought.

 

“How long is it gonna take?” Jix throws himself over the hull, swinging his legs as he settles himself above the wings.

 

“Dunno.” Is her succinct reply. She moves for the hydrospanner by her head, intent on fixing this stupid particle accelerator. It makes the barest of noises when she ignites the engine, and its beginning to bother her.

 

“What are you even doing, anyway?”

 

“Finding someone.” She bites out, putting all her effort into pulling the lever off the control panel.

 

“Isn’t that your specialty?”

 

“One of them,” she agrees. The others are recon and intelligence, and assassination. When she thinks on it like that, there was really no better occupation for her than being an _Emperor’s Hand_. Even being technically employed by Lord Vader is not quite the same.

 

“But I don’t think my skills are going to be much use,” she adds with a sigh. She finds the accelerator, tightening it against the engine. “This place—it’s full of billions of people, none of which are even aware of anything outside of their system. It is probably the best place to disappear to into in the whole goddamn galaxy; if his cover is good—which I’m assuming it will be—it’s going to be impossible to tell him apart from anyone else there. And it’s not as if I could ask around the local population; they wouldn’t even know what to do if I asked them if they’d seen a rebel cruiser bank on world somewhere in the last few months.”

 

Jix hums. “Well shit when you put it like that…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find him.”

 

She looks up briefly with a dubious glance. “I wish I could share your optimism.”

 

“You’re the best in the business,” he points out, as if that’s a compliment or something. “It won’t take you that long.”

 

“Thanks, I guess.” She returns, flatly. “Now get off my ship—you’re getting boot prints all over it and I just waxed it.”

 

Jix rolls his eyes, but dutifully leaps off. “It’s just a ship,” she hears him mutter.

 

Merope pushes herself away from the ship, rising from her mechanic’s bench and stretching out. She’s stalling, she knows. But it’s going to be one long fucking time away from home. Already she misses her place on Coruscant, all the open windows and water fountains. Hell, she misses Coruscant, period. Which is disturbing. She has never felt any attachment to the galaxy’s greatest salute to compact lifeform storage.

 

She turns to Jix, who is still pouting horrendously. It looks ridiculous on the tall and burly man.

 

“It’s not goodbye forever.” She reminds him with an eye roll.

 

“I’ll come and visit.” He swears.

 

“Make sure to clear that with Vader,” Merope cautions, alarmed at the prospect. The Sith Lord would not be pleased to hear Jix had—once again—wandered his way out of a mission or two.

 

He jabs her with an elbow, winking playfully. “You’ll have to show me the local… cuisine, if you know what I mean.”

 

She snorts, shoving him away and making for the cockpit. “They’re human; the local cuisine is probably the same ‘flavor’ as any other human based planet.”

 

“You won’t know until you try it!” Jix enthuses, waving as she settles herself in the pilot chair. “At the very least, call me everyday!”

 

“What are you, a dog that needs daily affection?” She guffaws.

 

“Yes!” Jix agrees, ignoring—or perhaps just unaware of—the insult.

 

She waves back though, as the duraglass plating slides over top of her. “Try not to die while I’m gone.” Are her daily words of affection. The hover engines kick in, perfectly silent this time without the accelerator acting up.

 

She hears Jix holler, “ _I make no promises_!” Down the hangar bay as she tears off into open space. She refuses to acknowledge it aloud, but she’ll privately admit that she might— _might_ —just miss him a bit. Like a sarlaac, he kind of just grows on you.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

Scotty had been right. It is clear to see that many years had come and gone in her absence, taking new ideas and inventions with them.

 

Merope does not really remember much of the dreary city of London—she had never been particularly interested in visiting. She’d heard it was drab and dreary, and if she wanted drab and dreary she would go to Dagobah. She’s fairly sure those taller buildings hadn’t been there before, though.

 

It was certainly more advanced than she remembered. There were horses and buggies on the streets still when Merope Gaunt met her unfortunate end; now they seem to at least have some passable attempts at transportation devices. They certainly were nothing like speeders, and didn’t hold a candle to her starships, but they were machine operated and vaguely resembled the sort of transportation you’d find on Coruscant.

 

She’d booked herself a room at the Leaky Cauldron—the only place she could remember by name in the tiny, crooked magical sector of London. This place hadn’t changed at all; the whole Alley looked as if it had gotten stuck somewhere in the interim of this century and the last—and didn’t appear all that interested in catching up.

 

Merope was glad to be here, though, for it was at least a roof over her head, even if the food wasn’t all that great either.

 

“’s all we got this late at night,” Tom, the bartender, apologizes. “Cook’s gone home.”

 

She leans over the counter, shrugging. “Food is food,” she replies. “I’ll take what I can get—thank you.”

 

He nods, returning to his cleaning. As he scrubs the counter down, she peers around the bar. It is relatively empty, aside from some seedy looking patrons down in the back. It’s late yes, but not that late. And this is a bar—shouldn’t they be open into all hours of the night? Where are all the people?

 

As if sensing her curiosity, the bartender drops his rag, folding his arms upon the wooden countertop. “Empty, innit?”

 

She blinks appraisingly at the man. “Yes,” she answers, truthfully. “I’d have expected it to be a bit more crowded.”

 

“You’d have been right, a couple months ago,” he asserts, balefully. At this, she feels a small spark of fascination.

 

“Oh?” She tilts her head.

 

He turns to her. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

 

“No, not at all.” She agrees. She’s not even from this planet. She’s not sure it gets much farther than that.

 

“These are dark times, miss,” he leans close, speaking low. “Dark times indeed. And no place for a good-looking woman like yourself. It’s not safe anymore—the Alley. Nowhere is safe.”

 

“Not safe?” She echoes, questioning. “Why?”

 

She racks her brain for any available information she might have. But she didn’t remember Scotty mentioning anything about wars—or at least, not in this area. Granted it’s very much so plausible that she’d simple not been listening at the time.

 

“ _They’re_ here.” He presses, with a shifty look around the bar. “They’re everywhere. People are disappearing left and right. Ollivander—on holiday? Bah! It’s blasphemy, is what it is. Half the Alley’s closed down, and at this rate, it’ll be all of it soon enough.”

 

“Right,” she cuts into his rant, blinking. “But who are _they_?”

 

“The Death Eaters.”

 

There is a long moment of silence as she simply stares at him in total incomprehension. He’s doing some strange waggling with his brows, as if he’s expecting her to understand what that means.

 

“I don’t know what that means.” She remarks, flatly.

 

His eyes bulge. “They’re—they’re—“ He sputters ineffectively. “They’re _his_! His servants! Dangerous folk, you know. Dark Wizards. Don’t want to find yourself on the wrong end of one of their wands.”

 

She suppresses a snort. She’ll be fine, thank you. But, he is looking at her with genuine fear in his eyes, so these people must be dangerous indeed.

 

“So—the Ministry,” she presses, “they’re fighting against them?”

 

“Fighting?” He snorts quietly. “The Ministry’s as useless as a flobberworm.”

 

“No one’s opposing them?”

 

“Well…” He spares her a contemplative glance. “I hear there is a group, fighting against them. Dumbledore’s lot. They fought against him in the last war—but he’s dead now, you know… tragic, that. I don’t know if there’s any hope for the Wizarding World now.”

 

He pauses thoughtfully. “But of course, there is Harry Potter.”

 

Merope sighs. None of this is making much sense. This man is an astoundingly unreliable source of information, but unfortunately, the only one it seems she’ll get for some time.

 

“This isn’t the first time this has happened?” She asks, perhaps genuinely interested in knowing the answer.

 

Not for her mission—it’s fairly irrelevant, all things considered. All of this is, actually. Whatever problems Merope Gaunt’s world is having are no concern of hers. Not when there’s the rebel alliance to deal with, and a whole galaxy of more pressing problems to worry about.

 

But this does not detract whatsoever from her desire to know. Because, against every logical thought in her head, she—wants to know. What happens to the world. What happens to _him_.

 

“No, almost twenty years ago now—a dark, dark wizard rose to power. Very dark, and very powerful. Some say the most powerful wizard in the world. Those were dark times as well, no one could trust anyone, always lookin’ over your shoulder… never knowing when one of you-know-who’s lot was coming for you.”

 

“You-know-who?” She echoes aloud. Is that actually someone’s name…? Tom flies at her, flapping his hands as he shushes her, looking around wildly. When he’s checked the area thoroughly enough, he turns back to her.

 

“We do not dare speak his name,” Tom whispers, urgently.

 

“Oh.” She blinks, shrugging. “Well, alright. So, he rose to power…”

 

“And the Order of the Phoenix—that’s what they’re called, Dumbledore’s lot—“ Tom continues at her behest. “Fought against him. But they were losing. All seemed lost when one day, the Dark Lord came to the house of one of the members; Hallow’s Eve, it was.”

 

She raised a brow, making a wave of her hand with impatience. “And?”

 

“And he… he was vanquished.” Explains Tom, with reverence. “By a baby. The boy-who-lived, Harry Potter. Used the killing curse on him, he did. No one knows how he survived, but the child did, escaping with only a little scar on his forehead. Shaped like a lightning bolt, I’ve seen it in person, you know—

 

“Yes, that’s wonderful,” she interrupts, irritably. “So this was twenty years ago, you say? What about after this?”

 

“Well, it was a confusing time. Witches and Wizards everywhere were being tried and thrown into Azkaban. Many of them got off, pleadin’ that they didn’t mean to do it, that they were being controlled with the _imperious_ curse.”

 

Merope’s brows furrowed. “And the Ministry let them?”

 

Tom shrugs. “Ministry couldn’t prove one over the other either way.” He remarks

 

Ah, yes, the imperious would make it rather difficult Personally she was more fond of force suggestion; difficult to master and even more difficult to cast onto something, but it didn’t leave a trace the way an _imperio_ did.

 

Didn’t leave a trace…

 

Merope bolted upright.

 

The imperious curse was more thorough, yes, but obvious to those who know what to look for, and its usage was undeniable. It’s why the Emperor never used the imperious—it was far too traceable.

 

Perhaps the Ministry of Magic couldn’t confirm or deny if a wizard was under the imperious or not—but the Emperor could. Up until now, she’d thought it was impossible to lie to the Emperor. His powers of foresight were simply too strong.

 

His force sensitivity was too strong.

 

For someone like the Emperor or Lord Vader, or even herself, detecting an imperious curse wasn’t even a skill worth acknowledging. Through the force they could tell when someone was lying, when they were hiding something, even what their future might be.

 

Merope swallows.

 

And if someone could possibly be able to deceive the Emperor, _right under his nose_ , than they would have to somehow find a way to avoid all of that. And Merope could not imagine anyone other than a Jedi could succeed in this feat.

 

“You alright, miss?” Tom peered down at her, squinting. “Haven’t scared you off, have I?”

 

“You should have,” she picks up without missing a beat. “But I’m afraid it seems I have no sense of self-preservation left.”

 

“I’m feeling the same way.” Tom agrees, gravely. “I should be kipping town, I know what’s good for me. I’m not like the rest of them, thinkin’ a sixteen year old boy could defeat the greatest sorcerer of all time.”

 

This piques her interest. “Sixteen?” At the very least, the story is fascinating. Personally she’d never want to be a part of it; it would draw far too much attention to herself. But it’s an interesting tale nonetheless. Maybe she’ll tell Jix about it later. 

 

“Yeah, that’s how old he is now. To be honest I haven’t ever seen him use magic, so I can’t tell you if he’s good enough or not. But he’s a boy, for Merlin’s sake. Thinking he could save us all is foolish.”

 

“I see your point,” she nods, solemn.

 

This Harry Potter character sounded interesting, but she wasn’t about to cast her lot with the losing side. She’s had to wade her way through quite a few wars in service of the Emperor, and while it is tedious, it is not impossible. But in general, she prefers to avoid them.

 

Right now, however, she had much to ponder on.

 

“I think I’ll be heading up,” she pushes the half-eaten bowl of oatmeal away from her, getting up off the stool. “Thanks—for the story.”

 

Tom laughs hollowly at that. “My pleasure, Miss.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

A Jedi.

 

This made things both infinitely easier and infinitely more difficult. It’s never difficult to feel another presence in the force. She’d expect that someone of this caliber would have a strong force presence to match—but perhaps he is so powerful he can mask himself as well. For how else could he have deceived the Emperor, of all people?

 

There’s no way he can hide completely, she thinks, rationally. The Force works in mysterious and incomprehensible ways.

 

Which would explain why she’s staying in London. This is not a small world by any means, and yet she has a feeling about these Isles. More than simple intuition—she is sensing something through the force.

 

Well, at the very least she knows this assailant is force-sensitive.

 

She’d conjecture that he’d be hiding himself in the Wizarding world, then. There might not be any force-sensitive people on this planet, but they _can_ wield magic, so seeing objects move around of their own volition, or any kind of telekinesis, or even mind reading, would not seem so out of place. She’s not even sure she’ll be able to tell when he is using the force or not, considering the Emperor did not know.

 

Merope heaves a sigh. It looks like she’s going to be returning to the Wizarding World, even after a good seventy years has passed in the interim.

 

To make matters worse—she’s going to need a wand. And she can recall with great clarity where she left it.

 

Merope should have known. Being on this planet… memories of her past would be inescapable.

 

It is impossible not to see the similarities between the two situations; two incredibly talented rebel informants, hidden on an unassuming, backwater planet. And she is once again meant to hunt this spy down, find his secrets, and then kill him. Unwillingly she remembers his smile, his rakish smirk, his lovely wit that never failed to make her laugh. He never had any trouble charming her into a smile, as handsome as the devil—and twice as deadly.

 

She presses the heel of her hand against her forehead, firmly, as if to expel the thoughts from her head.

 

There’s no use thinking on it. It is far in the past.

 

With that thought, Merope closes her eyes, and walks out of the Leaky Cauldron. The London sky is the indeterminable color of misery, and the patrons of the Alley are few and far between. As she walks down the street she recalls that the bartender had mentioned something about Ollivander ‘going on holiday’. She hopes that isn’t the case; she is in serious need of a wand. How strange it would look, if she were to cast magic without one?

 

Unfortunately the bartender was right; when she arrives at the storefront she is greeted with a ghastly sight. The windows have been smashed; the door hangs limply on its hinges; the interior has been ransacked into a mess. She steps in delicately, anyway.

 

There are still hundreds of wands lining the shelves, stacked haphazardly all the way to the ceiling. She supposes _one_ of these must work for her, considering the amount of them. It’s not as if Merope Gaunt’s wand was anything special, either. She plucks a few out of their boxes, swishing them around. One explodes a lamp post outside. Another shoves the chair over, and one even tries to singe her hair. Magic, she digresses, annoyed. It is so very unpredictable. The Force, on the other hand, was an incredibly dictated energy that required amazing feats of mental and physical control. Merope snorts; she doesn’t think there’s a wizard alive who cares much for his physical health.

 

She finds one eventually; long and white. Who knows what it’s made out of. It doesn’t clash with her force sensitivity, and it works well enough, so she’s not all that intrigued in finding out. She pockets the wand, and exits the shop to dive into the shadows, moving like a wraith in the watery daylight.

 

The young blonde wanders through the darkness, pickpocketing a few pockets along the way. It’s not as if she has any galleons—and unfortunately, while she has far too many credits to spare, she doesn’t think there’s a currency exchange for the two. The thought brings her to another conclusion that piques her interest, and before long she finds herself peering up into the uneven pillars of Gringotts bank, the building itself washed away in a marmoreal light, leaning alarmingly to the right.

 

She remembers coming here all those years ago, setting aside some money for herself even while she was married and living in the Muggle world. The Gaunt’s had nothing of value to put in a vault, so it was one strictly for herself. Well, they didn’t have anything aside from the locket, but she had been sure to pawn that off without a trace back to her.  Fortunately the Goblins do not recognize her, and though she doesn’t have her key any longer they let her in with a drop of blood or two confirming her identity.

 

“Vault 257,” her guide intones, bored, as he slows the cart down in front of an unassuming, rusted door.

 

Merope swallows, suddenly overcome with a nervousness she hadn’t expected. There is only one other person who could access this vault; she wondered what she would find in there.

 

To her relief—and disappointment—nothing had changed since last she saw of it.

 

A couple unused bottles of Amortentia, a notable spellbook or two, and a tome written in Parseltongue. A modest sum of galleons sits in piles in the back, dusty and dull with the long years left in here. There was no reason to keep any of this; it’s not as if she would ever have a use for them once she left (when she had no intention of ever returning), and they were not particularly valuable. And anything of value she may have had left on Earth had been left behind after her—her disaster of a marriage. But she had kept them anyway, perhaps out of guilt. Because she had no intention of staying on this planet, and though she didn’t regret leaving she felt remorseful enough to at least try to leave _something_ behind for him. Not much, but an inheritance all the same.

 

But it seems he hadn’t touched a single galleon of it.

 

Merope sighs, sliding all the coins into a money pouch. Well, more for her, she supposes.

 

She wanders back out into the milky sunlight, sparing a moment to simply stand at the bottom of the bank staircase and squint up into the light.

 

It is not a particularly interesting sight; it is not a binary system, with illustrious gold and blue stars crossing the skyline in tandem; there are no moons in daylight, spotting the horizon; no magnificent rings stretching through the stratosphere in infinite, scintillating colors. There isn’t even a sun right now; dark lugubrious clouds have crowded the skies above the buildings, casting a wan, indeterminable light upon the world.

 

Merope shakes the drifting thoughts from her head. She’s not here to contemplate the beauty of the atmosphere.

 

Her feet take her about the Alley in the hunt for any useful items that might be hiding in the cluttered storefronts. Well, the storefronts that were open, anyway. The only one in sight that appeared to be doing any business was a brightly colored shop at the top of the hill, with a rather scary-faced, grinning man mechanically tipping his hat every couple seconds. It appeared full with snotty teenagers though, so she steered clear of that.

 

Knockturn provided a more varied selection, and didn’t appear to be suffering as much as the rest of the Alley. She buys a few parcels and potions; they might be necessary. She has her blaster, and her lightsaber, and the force. None of which she should be using if she doesn’t want to blow her cover as a foreign alien from space.

 

She is just ducking under a low roof when her instincts kick in. Pebbles skitter above her and then she is reaching her arms up, slowing a young boy’s fall as he slides off the roof. The force drops him heavily into her arms, and she looks down with surprise to see a teenage boy.

 

She almost drops him in surprise. For a moment, she doesn’t see a lanky boy of sixteen or so; in the dim light of the alley Tom’s features drift over him, ever so briefly, before they are gone as she blinks the visage out of her eyes.

 

“You alright there?” She eases him back onto his feet. He looks incredibly embarrassed to have been caught out of the sky bridal style.

 

“Fine, thanks.” He rubs awkwardly at his hair, before he attempts to brush stray dust off his shoulders. “I’m really sorry about that—are you alright?”

 

“Perfectly fine.” She answers, scrutinizing him under the guise of a pleasant, benign expression.

 

“Well, uh, thanks for the catch. I might’ve broke something otherwise.”

 

Her lips tilt into an unremarkable smile at that. “Oh, just in the right place at the right time, I suppose.”

 

 


End file.
